


Common Law

by MMXIII



Series: The Bucharest Suite [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bucharest, Caretaking, Common Law Marriage, Explicit Sexual Content, Homecoming, Hurt Steve Rogers, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Oral Sex, Protective Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Trains, Travel, fosho, romania - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 19:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18350480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMXIII/pseuds/MMXIII
Summary: Steve heads home.





	Common Law

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to all who liked ‘Bucharest’ – for my next trick: a sequel :D

 

 

The booth is humid and rancid-smelling, pocked inside with stickers and gum. Steve leans heavily against the wall and holds the receiver to his ear.

There’s no preamble at the other end.  

 _Are you gonna be alright?_  The voice says, gruff and low.

Steve looks out through the phone booth’s grimy glass at the mass of people moving through the dark maw of the station’s main entrance and imagines being jostled between them: his raw, pulped, _aching_ body lanced by a thousand hands and feet.

He shudders. He’s so tired. He can barely think.

 _Hey,_ the voice cuts in sharply, _you there?_

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and swallows, throat dry. He shakes his head.

‘Yeah,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m fine. I’m OK.’

There’s a pause. The line crackles.

‘Alright,’ the voice says quietly.

The call cuts out and Steve sets the phone back in its cradle, still feeling its impression against the side of his face.

 

 

Inside the station the concourse is a medley of shrieking children and tannoy buzz, overflowing with backpackers and families. It’s a slow-moving crowd: loud and circumspect with suitcases underfoot.

He pulls his cap lower and tugs his hood up but nobody spares him a second glance as he limps across the main hall, dragging his throbbing body across the space.

 

He makes for the toilets, fumbling two small coins for the steel turnstile and heads for the nearest cubicle.

When he pisses it burns. He curls forward, shoving his face into his elbow and squeezing his eyes shut, mouth open against his sleeve.

Afterwards, he feels dizzy and there’s blood in the bowl. It takes him a long time to stand, leaning heavily against the grimy tiled wall.

 

With time to kill he buys sandwiches and coffee from a small kiosk and sits on a bench at the edge of the concourse, blearily watching a small boy darting in between his parents’ legs. The sandwiches are slow-going – his jaw aches, and at least four of his teeth are loose.

 

He boards the train just after three.

It’s a full house: he ends up wedged between the window and a group of backpacking teenagers, all of whom give him a wide berth.

He stares out of the window for a long time watching trackside infrastructure flick past. Eventually the suburbs thin out into fields and he finds himself blinking dumbly at the glass itself, smeared and pocked with splashes of dusty residue. He can see the faintest trace of his own reflection. His eye is swollen shut and the whole side of his face is a blue-black bruise.

The afternoon fades as fields turn to forest; it gets dark slowly, the sun setting in a softening blaze of red light.

He sleeps in fits and starts with his arms folded tightly across his body, kept mostly awake by the relentless itch of enhanced healing. He feels raw, oversensitive and uncomfortable, twitchy despite the leaden weight of exhaustion.

The hours pass quickly and slowly, sawing between boredom and daze.

He watches the sun come up with his forehead pressed against the window. The new light catches the scratches in the glass and makes them gold.

Gradually the fields thicken into suburbs. He reaches for his bag, clutching the strap tightly in one hand.

When the train pulls into Gara de Nord he’s stiff all over. He stumbles out onto the platform and blinks blearily at the crowd moving around him, dizzy under the white heat of the sun.  

 

Slowly, he heads north, crossing large roads until he hits a dusty tangle of narrow streets. He moves without thinking, barely breathing until he pushes through into the courtyard of a small, five storey apartment block. The whole place is still, silent in the blazing sun. He hauls himself up the stairwell in a haze of pain, dragging his twisted knee. Two flights later he unlocks a simple, unmarked door.

 

The apartment is cool and dark, lit only by light filtering through the papered windows.

He drops his bag, strips off his jeans, and crawls into bed.

 

He wakes up in pieces, sore and itching, and starving, almost faint with hunger.

He shifts, vision tender and swimming, hauling himself into a sitting position. The gauze on his thighs crinkles as he moves.

 

‘Don’t be stupid’

Steve looks up, dazed and dumb, as a man rounds the couch holding two plates.

He’s wearing work clothes: boots and a faded hoody, hair tied back neatly away from his face.

He crouches down alongside the mattress and holds out one of the plates. Steve takes it carefully: steak and potatoes, all cut up into little pieces.

Bucky drags his palm roughly through Steve’s hair and kisses the crown of his head before settling down alongside him with his own plate, back against the wall. He stretches out until their legs are flush, Steve’s bare skin against Bucky’s old jeans.

‘That’s the last time you do a favour for Natasha,’ Bucky says, gruffly.

Steve blinks slowly and makes a small noise of assent. Natasha’s favours did tend to unravel. Fifteen days in Kosovo was maybe more than he could stand.

‘She just leave you at the station?’

Steve nodded stiffly.

Bucky frowns.

‘That ain’t right.’

Steve hums, still blinking at the plate in his lap. He can’t seem to keep his eyes all the way open. He’s not sure he can even move his arm.

‘Hey,’ Bucky says quietly, taking Steve’s plate and picking up the fork for him.

‘It’s alright, Sweetheart. Let me.’

 

Afterwards Buck helps Steve shower, peeling the tape and gauze from his body, washing him, dressing him.

When Buck lays him back down in bed he falls asleep almost instantly.

 

The next time Steve wakes its dark.

He lies still for a while, just listening.

Bucky’s sitting on the couch wearing a loose t-shirt and shorts. He’s messing around with something but Steve can’t follow the motions of his hands. His hair is long and black in the low-light, hanging halfway down his back. Steve watches him, sleepy and doe-eyed.

Then Bucky looks up and sees him watching.

A frisson of desire shudders through Steve’s whole body as Bucky stands and moves towards him.

When Bucky settles over him he’s sweet, kissing down Steve’s stomach, nuzzling at the soft skin at the crease of his thigh. When Bucky sucks his cock he cries out, overwhelmed by the hot wet shock of it, held down by Buck’s strong hands around his thighs.

He tries to lift his head, straining to look down his body. He can barely see in the dark – only Buck’s pale arms and the line of his nose pressed low against his groin. He makes a small, hurt noise and Bucky sucks harder. Steve moans, head thumping back into the blankets.

He comes without meaning too, overwhelmed, tensing suddenly under Buck’s hands. Bucky reacts instantly, grabbing hold of Steve’s thighs and doubling down, taking him all the way in until Steve’s completely spent, warm and loose-limbed and shaky.

For a moment neither of them moves.

Then Bucky shifts and presses a closed kiss to Steve’s knee.

‘You feel alright?’ he asks quietly.

Steve hums, making a show of thinking about it.

‘Think I feel worse,’ he says, straight-faced, propping himself up so he can see Buck’s face.

He starts to laugh just as Buck smacks the most tender part of his inner thigh.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
